The mighty question arises upon us, what is one's own real self? It certainly is not what we think we are and ought to be.
There is nothing to save, now all is lost,
The days passed, the weeks. But everything seemed to have fused, gone into a conglomerated mass. He could not tell one day from another, hardly one place from another. Nothing was distinct or distingu...
What the eye doesn't see and the mind doesn't know, doesn't exist.
A woman has to live her life, or live to repent not having lived it.
The day of the absolute is over, and we're in for the strange gods once more
Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warm-hearted. Ibelieve especially in being warm-hearted in love, in fucking with awarm heart. I believe if men could fuck with warm hearts, and the w...
On revient toujours a son premier amour. It sounds like a cynicism to-day. As if we really meant: On ne revient jamais a son premier amour. But as a matter of fact, a man never leaves his first love,...
Democracy in America was never the same as Liberty in Europe. In Europe Liberty was a great life-throb. But in America Democracy was always something anti-life. The greatest democrats, like Abraham Li...
A young man is afraid of his demon and pulls his hand over the demon's mouth sometimes and speaks for him.
Human desire is the criterion of all truth and all good. Truth does not lie beyond humanity, but is one of the products of the human mind and feeling. There is really nothing to fear. The motive of fe...
You're spending your life without renewing it. You've got to be amused, properly healthily amused. You're spending your vitality without making any. Can't go on you know. Depression! Avoid depression!
You can't insure against the future, except by really believing in the best bit of you, and in the power beyond it.
I like to write when I feel spiteful. It is like having a good sneeze.(, November 1913)
When I read Shakespeare I am struck with wonder that such trivial people should muse and thunder in such lovely language.
You're always begging things to love you, he said, as if you were a beggar for love. Even the flowers, you have to fawn on them
What is the knocking?What is the knocking at the door in the night?It is somebody who wants to do us harm.No, no, it is the three strange angels. Admit them, admit them.
One's action ought to come out of an achieved stillness: not to be a mere rushing on.
Sometimes life takes hold of one, carries the body along, accomplishes one's history, and yet is not real, but leaves oneself as it were slurred over.
Life is ours to be spent, not tobe saved.